


i’ve got you (and we’ll be carrying each other)

by indigo night (laehys)



Series: neon-colored dreams [2]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Biker Gang, Bruises, Dissociation, Gangs, Gen, Guns, Mark Lee (NCT)-centric, Minor Violence, Self-Inflicted Bruising, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25363954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laehys/pseuds/indigo%20night
Summary: He’s been tracking the days he’s been trapped by the fading of his bruises. Hope is a dangerous thing but, still, he waits for them.
Relationships: Mark Lee (NCT) & NCT Dream Ensemble
Series: neon-colored dreams [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1802821
Comments: 4
Kudos: 71





	i’ve got you (and we’ll be carrying each other)

**Author's Note:**

> kind of but not really a sequel to [falling into place](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24902998); it's set in the same universe :)
> 
> be mindful of the tags !! especially abt self-inflicted injury

Mark doesn’t know how long it has been since he first laid his eyes on the gray walls surrounding him. After closing his eyes to sleep a few times, he no longer knew if a day had passed or just a few hours.

There are no windows where he is–just the muddied walls he already is so familiar with and the door that never opens.

He knows he isn't alone because of the screams he sometimes hears. They all seemed to sound distant, but he doesn't know if it was a trick caused by the thick walls; he doesn't know if there is someone sharing a wall with him, maybe even doing the same thing he is doing – palms pressing against the cold stone, hoping to feel something, to hear someone close. 

Just something.

Anything.

The bruises around his knuckles are almost all faded away, Mark notices unfazed, moving his hand under the only light bulb he had. Maybe today, after receiving his food, he’d punch the wall again. Or the door just so he could change things a little bit.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been there, but his right hand had its bruises fade away for twelve different times, his left only for three.

Mark supposes he’s been there for a _little while._

It’s maddening, it’s infuriating, but most of all, it’s frustrating. He hates not knowing what’s happening, hates not being able to control and fix things.

(Hates how he left them all there and he hopes–he _fucking hopes–_ they aren’t thinking he abandoned them and ran away. He’d usually never allow those kinds of thought to run free in his mind because he’s sure of what he does and what he shows them, but time is all he has there and he’s had enough time to overthink his entire life.)

The food is pushed through a little space under the door. Mark eats. He punches the door with his left fist until it’s all purple and bloody. He sleeps. He wakes and stares at his aching hand. He sleeps.

There’s nothing different in his routine and he hates that. He’d never thought before how much he’d miss the thrill of the run, the singing of his blood as he raced down the street with his group, laughs drowned by the wailing sirens behind them. 

Every time he thinks about it, thinks about them, it overwhelms him–chokes him up and he can’t breathe, a sob trapped inside his throat, eyes burning with tears he refuses to shed in _that_ place.

Mark wants to hope but he’s afraid to be disappointed. But in a way, maybe he already is hoping. After all, he’s still alive; dreams about meeting them again, thinks about what they could do together in the outside world. Makes plans he might never fulfill.

He doesn’t want to only hope because he fears for the day he might lose it and realize that nothing would change, drowning in his own despair with nothing else to ground him there. He wants and doesn’t want to. He fears but then indulges in his fantasies.

His fist aches until the bruises fade away. He uses the left hand again and counts mentally. _Fourth time._

Someone screams. Food arrives. He presses his hand to the cold wall in search of a comfort he knows he won’t find. The purple blossoms into a greenish color. Food arrives.

It’s been over a week and Mark knows it because now his hand is adorned with yellow and soft brown marks. His heart still beats, so he’s still alive, but the days have become colder and Mark’s puzzled because, by his counts, the stations weren’t supposed to be changing yet.

(A bruise takes almost two weeks to fade. He knows his body and is very well acquainted with injuries. He mentally counts: _twelve in this hand, four on the other_. He doesn’t dare to think about the possibility of being wrong. He _can’t_.)

But they do. It gets colder and he receives nothing for extra warmth.

There’s an old song that Mark remembers hearing a lot before. He knows that he _knows_ the lyrics, the melody is well ingrained inside him. Sometimes, when he’s distracted, his fingers drum a rhythm that he briefly recognizes. But he can’t sing it–he doesn’t remember how it sounds, how the song goes. And it makes him mad because it’s something he used to do easily but now he can barely recall it.

The numbers go up. Sixth time in one hand, ninth time. Twentieth. His mind clings to numbers he isn’t sure of anymore. But he counts and counts and adds and estimates.

Somehow, he ends up with both fists bloodied and he’s _tired._ He throws the plate back as soon as it’s pushed inside his room. 

He gets food again only when his hands are full of yellow bruises.

He sleeps. He waits. He sleeps. He cleans the dry mud of one of the walls. He sleeps. He eats.

The light bulb on the ceiling goes dark and Mark jumps up, heart pounding against his chest. The light never failed before and he feels uneased standing in the darkness, body thrumming with adrenaline and the need to find somewhere to hide, to not be so vulnerable.

He breathes in. The light comes back and he waits, body tense. Nothing jumps out from the corner of the room and the door continues closed. He can’t hear a single thing besides his own breathing.

Mark continues standing. Time never felt like it existed when stuck inside that room–and even more now when he’s on edge. But the yellow bruises let him keep track of time.

The lights blink once, twice, and then go out for a few seconds before coming back on. It’s a lot quicker than before, but Mark doesn’t let his guard down.

He doesn’t want to hope, he doesn’t want to feel the crushing weight of disappointment if it turns out he’s wrong, but that’s the only different thing happening in _so_ much time and his heart _hurts._

 _Please,_ he thinks. His eyes burn and he blinks. _Please._

The lights stay unchanged but there’s a thundering noise that sounds in the distance and Mark can feel his heart fluttering wildly inside his chest, hands clenching by the side of his body, a knot of tension in his stomach.

The loud sound echoes again but nothing happens. He looks down at his hand–still yellow. Okay.

He breathes in. Out. Rubs at his forehead, wonders if–

–a scream and then another thundering noise. Mark can now recognize the sound of an explosion, the floor under his feet shaking wildly.

He’s at the door before he can even understand he has moved, placing his ear against the wood. There’s shouting happening somewhere and doors banging, but Mark isn’t able to discern if they’re close or not until his entire body shivers when he hears,

“ _Mark! Mark!” “Mark-hyung!_ ”

A sob claws its way out of his throat and Mark feels his body shaking helplessly against the door, blood thrumming hot inside his veins.

“ _Mark-hyung!_ ”

He’d recognize these voices anywhere. They haunt him when he sleeps, keeps him company when he’s awake staring at the dark walls. He’d recognize them in a heartbeat. He’d always know them.

“ _Mark!_ ”

They’re shouting his name, voices closer than before. Mark coughs wetly and wipes under his eyes, banging against the door, trying to croak out a, _“Here!”_. His voice comes out broken and he tries again, fists striking the door uncaring of the pain. He cries their names as loudly as he can, throat burning.

“Mark? Are you here?”

He can see the shadows of movements under the door and bangs once again, coughing and choking on his own spit.

“ _Get back!_ ”

There’s no time for hesitation and Mark scrambles away from the door, falling to his knees and scraping the palm of his hands on the floor. He coughs once again and wipes away tears he didn’t even felt falling, heart pounding so loudly he almost couldn’t hear anything else.

The door falls inside with a loud thud and Mark’s breath hitches when he lays his eyes on the people walking inside. He wonders, for a second, if he’s hallucinating. The sting from his palm grounds him to reality but he still wonders if–if maybe–

“ _Mark-hyung_!”

Chenle all but falls upon him, arms caging around his body and holding him firmly. Mark closes his eyes tight, tears resurfacing as he feels Chenle’s warm body against his.

Someone mumbles something and there’s a hand carding through his hair. He opens his eyes, afraid of what he might see in front of him, but he sobs and shakes hard against Chenle’s grip, unable to believe that it’s _really_ happening. They’re all there.

“Oh, hyung…” It’s Renjun who says, voice all sad and soft. He squats down to have a better look at Mark and Jaemin walks closer to Renjun’s back, eyes shining with unshed tears and hands busy with a gun.

Behind them, Mark can barely make out Jeno and Donghyuck’s figure close to the hole that used to be the door, whispering between each other. He rubs his eyes hard, but there are new tears streaming down his face.

“We have to go,” Donghyuck says from where he’s standing with Jeno. “You can cry more back at home, Mark-hyung. But we need to go now.”

 _Home_.

He gets up with the help of Renjun and Chenle, knees almost buckling under the weight of reality.

“W-where… Where’s J-Jisung…?” he asks, eyes flittering between them. There are five of them in the room when they’re supposed to be six. He doesn’t want to jump to the worst possibility, but his heart already clenches just with the passing thought.

“He’s okay. He’s holding our way out,” Jaemin quickly assures him. He points to his ear. “He can’t stop asking things, but I think he forgot you can’t hear him, _right, Sungie_?”

There’s no audible answer, but by the faces the others did, Mark can assume that Jisung had said something.

“Come, hyung,” Jeno helps to hold him up when Chenle slips away and goes to the front of the group, guiding them through the hallways.

Mark feels overwhelmed by everything that’s happening, all the many new pieces of information being thrown at him–there’s Chenle guiding the group; there’s Jisung working on an important position and doing whatever he needed to secure their way out; there’s Renjun holding a gun almost half his height when he didn’t even know how to shoot a pistol before.

His fists are still bruised and his palms sting. He’s awake–he’s awake, everything is real, and he won’t just wake up back in the room. He’s awake and he’s going home.

He’s going home.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [twt](https://twitter.com/pinkhrj) | [ccat](https://curiouscat.me/rensungie) <3


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